The Name's Lynch Ross Lynch
by IMJUSTSAYIN1
Summary: When Ross Lynch needed to leave the CIA, he couldn't just retire. He had to fake his own death. So when his former boss calls in an old favor that will bring Ross out of early retirement and back to Washington to investigate.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys long time no see sorry for being gone for a while but I'm back and this time **

**with anew story so I really hope you like this one.**

**Enjoy**

**Don't own Austin & Ally**

**Current Day**

**Silver Creek, Montana**

He could feel it coming long before he heard it, descending like a sudden chill that swept through his bones, causing every muscle to tighten. It was a primal response, sharpened by years of experience. This, he thought, must be how dogs feel in those quiet moments before the earthquake hits, when they alone know the devastation of what's coming. When they alone know that everything is about to change.

For a split second, he considered tactical evasion, but out here among the pines and Rocky Mountain junipers, he knew it was a fool's errand. How far could he get? Maybe to the shore of the river before they arrived, maybe to the tree line, if he was lucky. And then what? He was easily fifty miles from the nearest town, equipped only with what could fit in his backpack.

But what did it matter? They'd already found him. And if they'd found him, that meant they knew.

He looked over the rolling water of the mountain stream. How long did he have? A minute? Maybe two? Scratching at the worn military cap covering his platinum blonde hair, his eyes fell on a rainbow trout swimming lazily near the surface, eyeballing the red-and-black fake bug dancing on the stream's surface. He'd spent the past hour luring the trout from the shadows. Maybe he had time enough for that. After all, if there was anything he hated, it was unfinished business.

"Come on. Come to papa," the man whispered. The trout, hypnotized by the hand-tied fly, drew closer.

But just as the fish was ready to strike, the water began to churn and rise upward around him, accompanied by a growing apocalyptic roar.

It was too late. They had arrived.

High above him the churning blades of the monstrous machine eclipsed the sun before sweeping over the tree line and coming to an imposing hover just above him. Droplets of water spattered onto the pepper-like stubble on his chin.

The sound of a Bell UH-1Y Venom helicopter is something that no soldier who has heard it ever forgets. It is what a man hears going into battle and what he hears when he is done fighting—if he is still alive.

The pilot landed in a clearing next to the stream and a twenty-something kid wearing an off-the-rack suit jumped from it, the blades of the aircraft still cutting though the clear air. "Ross Lynch?" he called. "Is that you?"

The fisherman glanced at the kid with disdain.

"Never heard of him," he growled.

Unsure what to do next, the young courier looked over his shoulder at the helicopter. A side door slid open and an older, pudgy man stepped to the wet ground. He slowly made his way to the creek's edge, cupped his hands around his lips, and yelled: "Jedidiah sent me."

"Don't know him."

"He said you'd say that." The speaker hollered, "Jedidiah says he's calling in Tangiers."

Tangiers. Tangiers had been bad. Even after all of these years, whenever the fisherman thought of Tangiers, he could still feel the cold linoleum pressed against his cheek, sticky and wet with his own blood. He could still see the mangled bodies and hear the unanswered cries for help. If it weren't for Jedidiah . . .

Reeling in his line, the man started toward the creek bank. He did not talk to the two strangers waiting there. He gathered up his gear and boarded the helicopter.

Tangiers. It was a hell of an IOU to call in. Jedidiah knew how difficult it had been for him to disappear. To go off-the-grid. To die, at least to be dead to a world that he had once known. A world that had tried to kill him, not once, but many, many times. Jedidiah understood why it had been important for him to no longer exist. And now Jedidiah was calling him back, dragging him back, to what he had worked so hard to free himself from.

Now inside the chopper, the man looked outside at the creek, the meadow, the blue sky. He was leaving it all.

"Let's go," the fisherman told them.

"Then you are Ross Lynch!" the younger man gushed. "You aren't dead like everyone said."

The older envoy gave the pilot a thumbs-up and the helicopter lifted from the ground.

"What's it been, Lynch?" the older man asked. "How many years have you been dead?"

It had been nearly four. Four years of solitude. Of peace. Of self-assessment. Of reevaluation and reflection. Jedidiah knew Ross better than any man alive. And he had known that he would come back if the trump card was played. Jedidiah had played it. Tangiers. Ross Lynch always paid his debts.

Even in death.

**Well I know it was short but don't worry more updates to come this weekend also please review and let me know if I should continue this or can it. Thanks for reading**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys I'm back with another update.**

**Again I don't own Austin & Ally**

A black stretch limousine was idling near the tarmac at Joint Base Andrews in Maryland when the air force C-21A Learjet carrying Ross Lynch landed. Now clean-shaven, dressed in a tailored Caraceni suit and black Testoni shoes, Lynch walked directly from the jet to the car's rear passenger door. An officer from the Central Intelligence Agency's internal police force, called the Security Protective Service (SPS), opened the door for him.

Sliding into the back leather seat, Ross found himself sitting across from Jedidiah Starr, the director of the agency's National Clandestine Service—a fancy name for the CIA division that recruited spies and did the nation's dirtiest jobs overseas.

Starr inspected Lynch over half-glasses perched on a nose that had been broken so many times that it had been impossible for surgeons to fully repair. Although Jones was old enough to be Ross' father, the NCS director was military-fit, built like a pit bull, with a shaved head and a raspy voice that sounded angry even when he was paying a compliment, which was rare.

"You look a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you," Starr said.

"It would be difficult to look worse," Ross replied, as the limo began making its way into Washington, D.C., along a route that was all too familiar to Ross.

Starr grunted. "Tangiers was a bitch. Didn't work out the way we planned. Shit happens. Anyway, I'm glad you're back."

"I'm not."

"I don't believe that, Ross," Starr said. "A guy like you needs the adrenaline rush. A guy like you thrives on the danger. You weren't really happy in Montana. Deep down, you know it. And so do I. You knew this day would come."

"You're wrong. I was at peace."

"Bullshit, you're lying to yourself!"

"Look, I'm here," Ross said. "But when I've done whatever you want this time, I'm going back. I'm done. We're even."

Starr took a fat cigar from his coat jacket, nipped off its end, looked at it lovingly, and fired it up.

"What about Laura Marano?" he asked. "You saying she doesn't matter to you anymore?"

Concealing his emotions had always been something Ross did well. It was a necessity in his line of work. He would not give Starr the satisfaction of a reaction now. Or ever. Still, Starr had struck a blow. Ross and Laura had worked together. They'd been perfect partners on assignment—and in bed. She was part of the reason he'd decided to disappear. She was part of the reason he still wished that he were a ghost.

It was an ironic twist. Laura had been declared dead once, too. There was even a death certificate filed in Richmond that verified she had been killed. He'd believed it when Starr had first told him. He'd been crushed. She'd been ripped from his life, and for one of the first times in his memory, he'd grieved. He'd actually felt tremendous and overwhelming loss because of her death.

Then he'd discovered it was a lie. Starr had engineered it. Her death was for the good of the company. For the good of the country. But it had not been for his good. It had taken him a long time to accept that Laura had not died, that she had been somewhere breathing, eating, possibly making love with someone else, while he was grieving. Yet she had not contacted him. She'd let him believe that she had been killed. Why? Being dead seemed to be an occupational hazard when you worked for Starr. It was a professional requirement; only her death had cut him deep.

Ross wondered, had his death caused the same reaction in her?

"Don't worry," Starr said. "Laura is out of country."

"Do me a favor," Ross said. "Don't tell her I'm still alive. It'd make things . . . complicated."

Starr smirked, revealing rows of perfectly crowned teeth.

Did Starr have a heart? Or was he the ultimate Machiavellian company man? Ice-cold. Ross wasn't sure, even after all of the years that he had worked from him.

"Whatever you want, Ross," Starr said, inhaling deeply.

"I want another promise from you," Ross said. "When I've done whatever it is that you want, promise me that you'll let me be dead again—this time forever."

Starr leaned forward and stuck out his right hand to shake. "You've got my word," he said.

"My debt is paid?"

"In full. After this time, you're done." And then Starr added, "Besides, you're getting too old, too soft for this."

Ross returned his smile. "What's so important that you called in Tangiers?"

"A kidnapping here in Washington, D.C."

"You called in Tangiers because of a kidnapping?" Lynch repeated in an incredulous voice.

"There's more to it."

With Starr there always was. His mind was already racing. He knew Starr would not be calling him out of his self-imposed retirement because of a kidnapping. It didn't make sense. The CIA was not authorized to operate inside the borders of the United States. Kidnappings fell under the jurisdiction of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and although in public the CIA and the FBI always presented a united front, Ross knew there was an intense rivalry between them. That was putting it mildly. Starr despised the FBI's current director, Ronald Ramone.

"Who's been kidnapped?" Ross asked.

"The stepson of a U.S. senator," Starr replied. "His name is Matthew Dull, and his stepfather is Senator Thurston Windslow from Texas."

Thurston Windslow. The first player in the Kabuki play that was about to begin. Windslow was one of the most powerful senators on Capitol Hill and chair of the U.S. Select Committee on Intelligence—the oversight committee charged with keeping an eye on the CIA and Jedidiah Starr. No wonder Starr was interested. But there had to be other players and more to this than a kidnapping.

"Who kidnapped his stepson?" Ross asked.

Starr waved his cigar in his hand, dismissing the smoke around him and Ross' inquiry in one move. "We're on our way to Windslow's office. He can fill you in. That way you will go into this fresh without any preconceived impressions."

It was classic Jedidiah Starr. Ross had been here before. Starr liked his officers to assess situations on their own—to come up with their own opinions. He wanted to see what they would learn. He wanted to see if they might discover something that he might have missed. Starr would give them just enough to get them started and then feed them information if they needed it, when he felt they needed it, and only if he felt that they needed it. Starr played it close to his vest, and even when you had completed a job, you were never really sure of how it fit together with some grander plan. Only Starr understood the master plan. He operated in a world of smoke and mirrors where nothing was what it appeared and nothing could be taken at face value. Even those closest to him were never confident that they knew what Starr was orchestrating.

Ross said, "What about the FBI?" Starr shrugged. "What about them? They're on the case. The special agent in charge is a woman named Ally Dawson."

Another player enters the game.

"Ally Dawson? Is that her real name?"

"Yes, it is. Her folks must have had a sense of humor. Or they were psychotic Disney fans. Either way, she'll be at the senator's office when we get there."

"And who am I supposed to be?"

"You're a special advisor. You're name is Jack Russell. That way Ross Lynch can remain dead."

"And if something goes wrong, there's no Jack Russell to be found."

"Exactly," said Starr.

"It seems like a lot of trouble—bringing me back and giving me a false identity—just for a kidnapping."

Starr blew out a series of perfect smoke rings. "It's sad really," he said. "Smoke rings. With everyone banning smoking, it's becoming a dying art."


	3. Chapter 3

Through the bullet-resistant windows of the black limousine, Ross saw the U.S. Capitol dome rising before them as they rode east on Constitution Avenue. It was an impressive sight, especially brightly floodlit at night.

The car passed the Russell Senate Office Building (SOB), which was the first of three ornate office buildings used by the nation's one hundred elected U.S. senators. In a city obsessed with acronyms, Ross had always thought the shorthand SOB seemed a fitting description for where senators did their business.

The Dirksen SOB was next. Opened in 1958, it had been known for nearly two decades simply as SOB Number Two, until Congress decided to name it after the late Illinois Republican Senator Everett M. Dirksen, an orator so famous that he'd been awarded a Grammy for an album of his patriotic speeches called Gallant Men.

Senators loved naming buildings after their own.

When the limo stopped at the Dirksen SOB's western entrance, the SPS security officer in the front seat jumped out and darted inside to alert the Capitol Hill Police officers on duty that two VIPs were arriving. Starr and Lynch would not be delayed by security checks. There would be no walk-through metal detectors, no searching of briefcases and emptying of pockets. Instead, both men were quickly escorted to Senator Windslow's office, where a secretary immediately led them into the senator's inner chamber.

As with most other things on Capitol Hill, senate offices were doled out based on seniority and power. The bigger the office, the more important the senator. Windslow had been assigned the largest office in the Dirksen. His private domain had fifteen-foot-tall ceilings, ornate carved wooden bookcases, and thick carpet. Expensive brown leather sofas and overstuffed chairs faced an executive desk made of polished mahogany that had clearly not come from some General Services Administration warehouse. One wall was covered with framed photographs that showed the senator posing with foreign presidents and dignitaries. It was proof that Windslow relished his power and clearly enjoyed taxpayer-funded junkets to exotic locales. Another wall was decorated with the Texas state seal and a pair of mounted longhorns from a Texas steer.

The senator rose from behind his desk but made no effort to walk forward and greet them. He let them come to him with outstretched hands.

"About time you got here, Jedidiah," Windslow snapped, as he shook the CIA spymaster's hand. "You've kept me waiting ten minutes."

Windslow looked at Ross, and the two men immediately sized each other up, like two schoolboys squaring off during recess.

Tall and thin, Windslow was in his early seventies and instantly recognizable. He was a familiar face on Sunday morning television talk shows and evening newscasts. But it was his haircut and voice that made him memorable. He had pure white hair that he wore in an outdated, carefully coifed pompadour swept back from his forehead and held firmly in place with a glossy shellac spray. He spoke with a slow, deliberate Southern drawl that was sprinkled with homespun sayings that he frequently used to remind voters that he was one of them, a yellow-dog Democrat. In Texas, which he had represented for more than thirty years, he was considered undefeatable.

"So this is your man," Windslow said.

"Senator Windslow," Starr said, "this is Jack Russell. He doesn't work for me, but he occasionally does piecework for me. He's a private detective."

"You're the fixer?" Windslow asked bluntly. "You're the man who gets things done no matter what—am I right?"

Ross didn't like the fact that there were three others in the office. He'd identified FBI Special Agent Ally Dawson as soon as he walked in. A telltale bulge under the jacket she was wearing had given her away. He'd recognized the senator's wife from news articles. But he had no idea who the twenty-something-year-old girl was sitting nearby.

"I'm here to lend a hand," Ross said, dodging the senator's questions. "I've already got enough hands," Windslow replied. "I've got the entire FBI lending a hand, and so far, it hasn't done any good. What I need is someone with a fist."

No one spoke for a moment, and then the senator's wife said in a quiet voice, "My husband seems to have forgotten his manners. My name is Gloria Windslow." She rose gracefully from her seat, showing the emotional control of a well-trained politician's wife. Even in times of great emotional stress, she knew that she needed to be composed.

Her grip was soft. Her fingernails manicured. She was at least thirty years younger than her husband and was dressed in a pricey New York designer outfit that had been tailored to accent her figure.

Ross had read about her in the media. As soon as she'd finished high school, Gloria Windslow had fled the poor, rural Texas town where she'd been born. Her ticket had been her breathtaking good looks and unbridled ambition, which had led to her winning a spot on the Dallas Cowboys cheerleading roster. She'd gotten pregnant, married a star NFL quarterback, and then divorced him two years later, after claiming that he'd abused her. She and her newborn had made the covers of both People and Us magazines, where she'd been portrayed as a determined single mom who'd refused to be bullied by her famous husband. Gloria and the senator had met two years later at a Dallas political fund-raiser where supporters had paid three thousand dollars a plate to hear him speak. She'd arrived on the arm of one of the city's most eligible bachelors, a prominent lawyer, but had traded up, leaving with Windslow. A month later, he hired her to work in Washington as his personal secretary. A year later, Windslow filed for divorce from his wife of thirty years, causing a dustup back home. The new couple's age difference raised eyebrows, but Windslow hired a Manhattan public relations firm to salvage his well-crafted reputation as a good Christian family man, and by the time the Madison Avenue spin masters were finished, Gloria was no longer a home wrecker. She was now a confident and trusted advisor to her husband, with a passion about education, libraries, and women's issues. At Christmas, she invited special needs children to a party at their estate, and gave them pony rides in a heated barn.

She was still stunning in her mid-forties, thanks to a strict starvation diet, cosmetic surgery, and regular Botox injections.

After introducing herself, Gloria directed Ross to the other women in the office.

"This is Miss Brooke Toppers," she said, directing his attention to the youngest. "She and my son, Matthew Dull, are engaged to be married."

As Toppers rose from her seat on a sofa to meet him, Ross realized that he was looking at an architectural marvel. She weighed less than a hundred pounds and was under five feet tall, but she was so top-heavy that he wondered how she kept herself from tumbling facedown when she reached out to shake his hand.

"Nice to meet you," Toppers said in her childlike voice.

When he finally got around to looking at her face, he saw that her eyes were swollen and red from crying.

"And this is Special Agent Ally Dawson," Gloria continued.

In her Brown eyes, Ross saw a look of irritation. She couldn't have been any more opposite in appearance to Toppers. The FBI agent was six feet tall and had a world-class marathoner's body, which meant she averaged two pounds per inch. In her mid-thirties, she had porcelain white skin and wore her brown hair tied in a bun.

"Now that you've met everyone," Senator Windslow said, "let's get to it. My stepson, Matthew, has been kidnapped. They grabbed him while he and Brooke were walking across the Georgetown campus."

"Fortunately," Gloria interrupted, "they didn't bother Brooke, but they did kidnap my son."

For the first time since Ross had entered the office, he saw a crack in Gloria Windslow's veneer. Tears began to form in her eyes. She removed a tissue from her purse and dabbed them.

"The kidnappers," Windslow continued, "left Miss Toppers hysterical on the sidewalk."

Ross looked for some sign of sympathy in Windslow's face, but there was none. Had he expected the top-heavy Toppers to fight the assailants? Toppers lowered her eyes, avoiding contact with Windslow's glare.

"I think it would be best," Gloria said, between sniffles, "if Special Agent Dawson gave you the details. It is difficult for me to discuss the facts without becoming emotional."

Taking her hint, Agent Dawson said, "The kidnapping happened three days ago. A white van pulled up at an intersection on the edge of the Georgetown campus where Mr. Dull and Miss Toppers were waiting for a red light to change. It was shortly after fourteen hundred hours. Three men, all wearing ski masks, leaped out of the vehicle. One stayed behind the wheel. The first assailant fired an automatic weapon in the air to scare onlookers. The other two overpowered Matthew and forced him into the van. We found the van abandoned six blocks away."

"No fingerprints or trace evidence, I assume?" Ross said. "That's right. Wiped clean."

"How about the shell casings left behind?"

"It's all in my report," she replied curtly.

"Which she'll be happy to give you after we are done," Windslow declared. "I spoke to FBI Director Jackson this morning, and he has instructed Agent Dawson to cooperate fully with you. No questions asked. Isn't that correct?"

"Yes," Ally said. "I've been ordered to help you."

"Agent Dawson doesn't think bringing you into the investigation is a good idea," Gloria Windslow said. "My husband and I feel differently."

"That's because the FBI hasn't done a damn thing so far," Windslow declared.

Ross saw Ally's jaw muscles tighten. He suspected she was biting down hard to keep her response from slipping out. "I got a ransom note," Windslow said, "the day after those bastards snatched him. They demanded a million dollars, which I immediately agreed to pay." Windslow shot FBI Agent Dawson a disgusted look. "Agent Dawson here assured me that if I played along with these sons-of-bitches, the Bureau would be able to catch them when they picked up my money."

"But that's not what happened," Gloria Windslow said, cutting in on his account. The two of them made quite a tag team. For not wanting to discuss the case, both seemed eager to do it.

"The Bureau here screwed up," Windslow said.

"With all due respect, Senator," Ally replied. "We followed standard procedures. The ransom was left exactly where the kidnappers had told us to put it. The entire place was under surveillance." "That money just sat there," Windslow said, "and no one showed to get my million dollars. They knew it was a trap. Someone tipped off the kidnappers. I just know it."

"We don't know that," Ally said.

"Well, young lady, something spooked them—like a mule deer sniffing the air when you're hunting," Windslow said. "The next morning, I got another ransom note; only now these bastards have decided to play hardball."

Gloria began to quietly sob. Toppers left the couch and knelt down next to the chair where her future mother-in-law sat. Rising from behind his desk, Windslow walked over, too, and put his right hand on Gloria's shoulder. "This is a terrible thing for my wife to be going through." He stroked her hair.

Continuing, Windslow said, "Those bastards pulled out four of Matthew's front teeth and sent them to me in that ransom note, along with a photograph. That's when I decided to talk to Jedidiah. That's when I decided we needed your help."

Ross looked at Agent Dawson. She had placed her right leg over her left one and then wrapped them so tightly together that she now had her right toe tucked behind her left ankle. Her arms were crossed against her chest. Even someone completely unfamiliar with body language would have recognized how frustrated she was.

"I'd like to see the two ransom notes," Ross said.

"Agent Dawson will get them for you," Windslow said. "Now, I'd like all the women folk here to skedaddle for a few moments so I can talk to Jedidiah and his man in private."

"C'mon, ladies," Gloria said, rising slowly from her seat. Toppers instantly fell in line, but Ally didn't move. "Senator," she said sternly, "as head of this investigation, I need to be involved in every discussion that you might have that involves the kidnapping."

"I have things to say in private, Miss Dawson," Windslow snapped. "I was assured earlier today by Director Jackson that I would have your total and full cooperation. Do I need to have him replace you?"

"For the record," Ally said, "I think you are making a mistake bringing this outsider into the case."

"For the record," Windslow replied, mimicking her, "I asked you to leave my office."

Ally walked out the door.

"Jedidiah tells me," Windslow said to Ross when she was gone, "that you're a man who knows how to find people who don't want to be found and that you can handle yourself in extremely difficult situations." Starr said, "He's my go-to guy. If it were my stepson, I'd call him."

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear," Windslow said. "I need someone who can track down these bastards and do whatever is necessary to free my stepson. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

Ross said, "You want results and you don't care how I get them."

Windslow smiled. "Finally, I'm getting the sort of answers I wanted. Yes, this is exactly what I want from you, Mr. Russell, or whatever the hell your name might be. I asked Jedidiah to get me someone who isn't worried about legal niceties. I asked him to get me the best."

Ross didn't respond.

"First, I want you to track down these bastards, and then, I want you to kill every one of them. I'm not worried about you reading them their legal rights and arresting them and getting them some fast-talking lawyer whose going to bottle this up in some long, drawn-out trial. I want them dead. I want you to get it done before they send more of my stepson's body parts to my wife."

**Well what did you guys think? Please don't forget to review because reviewing is really awesome. By for now.**


	4. Chapter 4

It was 8:30 P.M., by the time Ross and Starr left Capitol Hill and arrived at the Willard InterContinental Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, less than a block from the White House. Before they parted, Starr handed Ross an envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, a fake Nevada driver's license, private investigator credentials under the name Jack Russell, a cell phone that was a direct line to Starr at the CIA, and the keys to a rental car parked in the hotel's lot. Ross reached his fifth-floor suite at the same moment the phone inside it began to ring. It was FBI Agent Dawson calling from the lobby. She'd come to brief him. "Come on up," Ross said.

"I'll wait for you in the hotel's restaurant."

Ross joined her five minutes later at a secluded table.

"I've never stayed in this hotel," she said as he was sitting down. "But it is famous. Mark Twain wrote two books here."

"We can go up to my suite and I'll give you a tour," he said.

"I was being polite, making chitchat," she said. "I've no interest in going to your bedroom."

"Too bad," he intimated. "I was hoping for a full debriefing."

Ross glanced around the mostly empty restaurant. "This hotel is much nicer than the places Jedidiah typically sends me," he said.

The waiter arrived. Ally ordered coffee. Ross ordered a sixteen-dollar hamburger and an eight-dollar beer. When their server left, she said, "And where would some of those places be—where Jedidiah has sent you?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"That's an old line."

"In my case, it happens to be true."

"Look," she said sternly. "I've been ordered to brief you and work with you. I think I deserve to know who you are."

The waiter interrupted with their drinks. After he'd left, Ross said, "I'm a private investigator—just like Jedidiah said. I used to work for him on occasion when I was in the military."

"Oh really," she replied skeptically. "I did some checking earlier today after Jedidiah told us that he was flying you into town. He said you were from Nevada. If that's true, why is there no record of you being a licensed private investigator in that state?"

Ross shrugged. "I've been meaning to get a license. I just haven't gotten around to it."

"You do have a Nevada driver's license though, right?"

Ross didn't answer. She was supposed to be briefing him, not interrogating him. But Dawson wasn't about to stop now.

She said, "I checked the photos of all the Jack Russell's who have Nevada driver's licenses. You don't look like any of them."

Ross was disappointed. Jedidiah usually did a better job backstopping legends.

"I got a haircut," he replied.

"I ran an FBI background check and there is nothing in any public record about a Jack Russell that fits your description. Who are you—really?"

Ross leaned in close and whispered, "I'm the man who's been brought in to clean up your mess. That's all you need to know."

The waiter brought him his burger. Ross hadn't realized how hungry he was. He took a big bite and another long gulp of cold beer.

In a resigned voice, Ally said, "What exactly do you need to know about the kidnapping?"

"Everything."

Between bites, Ross questioned her. Dawson elaborated on the basics that he'd already heard in Windslow's office. Matthew Dull and Brooke Toppers had finished their last class for the day at Georgetown University and were walking across campus to get something to eat when a white van pulled to the curb and three attackers leaped from it. One fired an automatic weapon in the air to intimidate would-be heroes. He then pointed it directly into Topper's terrified face. The other two assailants overpowered Dull and forced him into the van. The entire abduction had taken less than a minute." "Why hasn't this been all over the national news?" Ross asked.

"Strings were pulled. The media was told that it was a college prank. Georgetown officials went along. Said it was a fraternity gag that got out of hand."

"What kind of automatic weapon was used?"

Ally opened a black leather briefcase that she had brought with her and removed a clear plastic bag that contained about a dozen brass shell casings.

"There were no fingerprints on them," she said, putting the bag on the table.

Ross didn't bother opening it as he finished the last bite of his burger. He'd seen enough 7.62 x 39mm ammunition casings to recognize them by sight.

"The assailant used an AK-47," he said.

"Yes," Ally replied, impressed. "Unfortunately, there are about seventy-five million AK-47s being used right now in the world. The Soviet Union did a hell of a job exporting them to every terrorist and revolutionary group in the world, as well as every nut in the U.S. who found a way, legally or illegally, to get his hands on a firearm capable of firing six hundred rounds a minute."

"It sucks being Bambi nowadays."

He smiled. She didn't.

Ross said, "These guys went in fast, hard, deliberate, and left nothing behind that could be used to identify them. They were pros. Possibly ex-military." He said, "Let's see the ransom notes."

She removed two letters from her briefcase. Both were protected in plastic. The first was written in block letters, similar to what a draftsman would use on blueprints.

"WE WILL KILL YOUR STEPSON UNLESS YOU PAY US $1,000,000." The note went on to order Windslow to pay the ransom in hundred-dollar bills. The cash was supposed to be placed in a briefcase left in the fast-food dining area of Union Station, the city's major subway and Amtrak station, near Capitol Hill. The kidnappers had drawn a diagram on the note that pinpointed where the briefcase was to be left, underneath a table near a back wall. The ransom was supposed to be delivered by Dull's fiancée.

"Brooke Toppers was terrified," Ally said. "I kept telling her that she was fine. We had the entire train station flooded with agents—nearly a hundred—coming and going. We used interns and retired agents so the kidnappers wouldn't have a clue who was a civilian and who wasn't."

"And no one showed up to grab the case?"

"No one showed any interest in it even after she walked away from that table."

"I'm surprised. Not because of the kidnappers. But that you could leave a briefcase in Union Station without someone stealing it."

Continuing her briefing, Ally said, "We found a partial print on the corner of that first note. There weren't any prints on the second one. It arrived the next day."

Like the first, the second ransom note was handwritten, but not in block letters. There was no mention of a ransom—only a cryptic threat.

"Your son dies if you continue toying with us."

Ross said, "Obviously, these were written by different people. Not only is the handwriting different, so is the paper they used. The first note had a partial print on it. The second didn't. There's also an error in the second message. In the first, Dull is correctly described as Windslow's stepson. In the second, he's called his son."

"Yes, I noticed those contradictions, too," Ally replied. "But we know that at least four kidnappers were involved. One of them could have written the first note, and another the second, simply to throw us off. The same could be true about the discrepancies. They might have been intentional."

Ross wasn't so sure, but he decided to move on. "Tell me about Senator Windslow. Does he have many enemies?"

"Does he ever. He's probably one of the most hated senators in Washington. He's blunt and he's been around so long that he's untouchable. He knows it. He's a bully, and when he doesn't get what he wants, he gets angry—and he always gets even. Other politicians fear him. Even the White House. He has a reputation for being ruthless and vindictive."

"Sounds like every politician I've known," Ross said. "No, Windslow is in a league of his own. You would expect Republicans to hate him because he's a Democrat. But half the members of his own party can't stand him. And that's just on Capitol Hill. Outside of Congress, the groups that probably hate him the most are the environmentalists. Windslow is a shill for Big Oil. Always has been. He doesn't believe in global warming, thinks oil companies should be able to drill holes anywhere they damn well please, and once voted against a bill that would have levied fines on visitors who littered in state parks."

"It's hard for me," Ross replied, "to imagine that an armed gang of environmentalists kidnapped the senator's stepson."

"You asked me to identify his enemies. That's what I'm doing. Being thorough."

Ross called over the waiter and ordered another beer. "OK, besides the tree huggers, who's next on the enemies list?"

"As chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, Windslow wields tremendous power. He's always been a strong advocate of Israel. That makes him hated by Middle Eastern extremists."

"Any particular terrorist cell?"

"All of them despise him. He's also managed to alienate the Russians, the Germans, and the Greeks. He's a rabid anti-Communist and doesn't trust the new Russian leaders; he believes all Germans are closet Nazis, and he dislikes socialist countries."

"How can anyone hate the Greeks?" Ross asked. "All they ever do is break plates and spend Euros that they don't have."

Ally didn't smile. "There's also your people—the intelligence community. Senator Windslow and Jedidiah were all buddy-buddy tonight in the senator's office, but there are rumors they're fighting about a covert operation. And their dispute has gotten nasty."

"What covert operation?"

"Don't know. It's above my pay grade. Maybe you can find out."

"Do you honestly believe Jedidiah is behind the kidnapping?" Ross said skeptically.

"At this point, I'm not counting out anyone. I think you CIA types are capable of anything. Even your arrival here today could be part of a ruse."

She finished her coffee and carefully placed the cup back on its saucer.

Although Ally had already given him a long list of suspects, Ross suspected she was holding back. He'd learned a long time ago that during interviews, it was the last thing that people told him that often held the most important clue.

"If our roles were reversed," he said sympathetically, "I'd be pissed. I'd think, 'Who the hell does this guy think he is barging into my investigation?'I wouldn't be as helpful as you have been just now. But a crime's been committed, and there's a chance that Matthew Dull may still be alive. We owe it to him to put all of our cards on the table, so if there is anything else that you can tell me, anything at all, please share it."

He sounded sincere. He was very good at sounding sincere. It had always served him well—at work and in bed.

Ally sat quietly for a moment. "About a year ago, the bureau began hearing reports that Windslow was on the take. Bribes. Big ones. The first complaint came from a Texan who had bid on a lucrative military contract. One of Windslow's staff members demanded a kickback. When the Texan refused, the contract went to another company. The Texan called us, but all we had was his word and that wasn't enough—not to build a criminal indictment against a U.S. senator."

"You began digging."

She nodded. "I wasn't going to let it go. I discovered Windslow was adding riders to legislation that permitted oil companies to move millions of dollars from their overseas operations into the U.S. without paying federal income taxes."

"But that's not illegal," Ross said. "Senators screw with the IRS all the time to help out their friends."

"Right. But I discovered that Windslow was collecting a fee based on how much money he helped the oil companies get back into the country tax-free. Or, I should say, I got several people to talk about kickbacks. But nothing on paper. Windslow is smart. And then I found a smoking gun. I discovered a wire transfer that I felt certain was a bribe paid to Windslow by someone overseas." "Who? A government, a corporation, an individual?"

"I'm not sure. Bribery is difficult to prove. The person who paid it isn't going to talk. The person who got it isn't going to talk. Most times, you can only make a criminal case if you have a money trail."

Ross didn't interrupt. He wanted her to keep talking. But he was very familiar with how bribes worked and how to hide them. He'd helped Jedidiah distribute millions of dollars in Iraq and Pakistan. The agency had handed out hundred-dollar bills as if they were Halloween candy—all unbeknownst to Congress and the American taxpayer.

Ally said, "I was able to trace a six-million-dollar payment from a London bank account to the Cayman Islands, where it was converted into cash and brought to Washington, D.C. I'm fairly certain it ended up in Windslow's hands."

"Fairly certain or positive?" A pained look appeared on her face. His question had hit a nerve. She said, "I feel confident that I had developed a sufficient circumstantial case—enough to indict. But when my file reached the director's office, it was put on ice. No one would tell me why. That was three weeks ago."

Ally glanced at her watch. It was eleven and the restaurant was closing. She collected the two letters from him. "I've done what I was told," she said. "I've briefed you. I'll pick you up tomorrow at eight A.M. sharp. We have set up a command post at FBI headquarters. If you have additional questions, then you can ask them to my bosses tomorrow at the briefing."

"I do have more questions," he replied. "Since the restaurant is closing, let's go upstairs to my suite so we can talk more."

"I don't think talk is what you have in mind." "He grinned. "Depends on the kind of talk. At least let me walk you to your car."

"I'm armed, and I think I can make it through the hotel lobby to the valet without your help." Then, for the first time since they'd met, she actually smiled and said, "Besides, I think I have more to fear from you than I do from any strangers."

"Ouch," he replied, touching his heart as if he'd been shot. "Just trying to be gentlemanly," he said, intentionally repeating her words.

"Then you can pay the check—Mr. Jack Russell."

He watched her walk away from the table, admiring the dazzling results of her yoga routine hidden under her tailored slacks. As soon as he'd signed the bill with his room number and fake name, Ross followed her. But by the time he reached the lobby, she was already behind the wheel of her BMW. He stepped outside the hotel's double doors just as she was driving away. As he watched, he saw a black Mercedes-Benz sedan pull from a side street near the hotel and begin to follow her.

Ross recognized the red, white, and blue license tag. It was a diplomatic plate.

Hurrying back to his suite, he used his portable computer to log on to the Internet. Diplomatic plates contained a two-letter code that identified which country had been issued the plate by the U.S. State Department. Periodically, the code letters were changed and reassigned. GB was never used on tags from Great Britain and IS was never used for Israel, because that would make it too easy for potential enemies to identify the car's occupants.

Ross had seen the letters YR on the plate of the Mercedes following Ally. Within seconds, he'd broken the code. What had Jedidiah Starr gotten him into? Why would a diplomatic car from the Russian embassy be tailing Special Agent Dawson?


	5. Chapter 5

The hotel phone in Ross' suite woke him from an alcohol-induced slumber. Several jigger-sized whiskey bottles pillaged from the hotel's minibar littered the nightstand. He'd stayed up late trolling for information on the encrypted computer network that the CIA and other federal intelligence services could access via the Internet. His searches had led him to several clues. But what he'd uncovered remained disjoined pieces of a puzzle that still needed to be assembled.

At around 3 A.M., Ross had gone to bed, but he'd found it difficult to sleep. He'd known why. It wasn't the kidnapping. There were two reasons, and both had to do with his return to Washington, D.C. Laura Marano and Tangiers. Sometimes only Jack Daniel's could help a man black out his past.

A woman's voice on the telephone line said, "Senator Windslow is calling."

Ross checked the clock next to the king-sized bed. It was a few minutes after 6 A.M. His head was throbbing. The next voice he heard was Windslow's. "Those bastards left me another note—this one at my house."

"Did they send anything else?"

"No teeth or body parts, if that is what you're asking. But they raised their ransom demand."

"How much?"

"Six million! I'm at my house in Great Falls. Get out here now!"

Ross jotted down the address and asked, "Have you called Agent Dawson?"

The question was met with silence. Finally, Windslow said, "I don't want her or the FBI involved. I'll explain when you get here. Don't call her, that's an order."

An order? That was something Ross would need to clear up with Windslow. Only Starr gave him orders, not a politician.

Ross went downstairs to claim his rental car. The valet brought him a white Ford Taurus. It was not what spies in movies used, but it was perfect for blending in around Washington and its suburbs. He drove to Constitution Avenue, turned right, crossed the Potomac River, and headed north on the George Washington Parkway until he reached the Capital Beltway, a major highway that encircled the city. Exiting west onto the beltway, he went farther into Virginia. It took him another ten minutes to reach Great Falls, a heavily wooded, rolling suburb dotted with multimillion-dollar Colonial estates. He assumed he was being tracked electronically—if not by the CIA then by the FBI. There was probably a bug planted somewhere in the Taurus, or they were using the cell phone that Starr had given him. At this stage, he didn't care.

Senator Windslow's driveway was barred by an ornate, monogrammed iron gate. Ross pushed a button on a speaker mounted at the driveway entrance, and when the gates swung open, he drove along a circular driveway bordered by a carefully manicured lawn. An older black maid answered the front door and escorted Ross into the grand foyer, which had an imported Italian marble floor and a massive Versailles chandelier made of crystal and oxidized brass. Rising directly in front of him was an elaborate double staircase. A portrait was hung next to the first step on each side. One painting was of Senator Windslow and the other was of Gloria Windslow. Because each painting was hanging next to the first step, it gave the impression that the senator used one flight of stairs and his wife the other. The artist, Ross noted, had been shrewd enough to recognize that his patrons placed a higher value on flattery than realism. Both of the Windslows looked like British royalty.

Senator Windslow appeared in a dark blue nylon workout suit with a curled up towel resting on his shoulders and his forehead beaded with sweat.

"I ride my stationary bike for an hour every morning," he explained. "Gives me a chance to exercise while I read the papers and watch the news."

Ross followed him through a side door into a wood-paneled study where the maid had placed a pot of coffee and two mugs on a table edged by three leather chairs. They matched the brown leather chairs in Windslow's office. Ross spotted another pair of Longhorn steer horns mounted on the wall, just like the ones that he'd seen on Capitol Hill. Obviously, the senator's decorating taste was the same whether he was at home or work. Hattie, our housekeeper, fetches me the newspapers each morning from the box at our gates while I'm exercising," Windslow said, as he poured himself coffee and took a seat. He nodded at Ross, indicating that he could pour himself a cup, too, if he wished. "This morning," Windslow said, "Hattie found this at the gate."

Windslow nodded toward an opened manila envelope on the coffee table, along with a pair of yellow rubber gloves.

"Has anyone checked the note for prints?" Ross asked.

"No. Put on those gloves there before you handle it. I had Hattie get them from the kitchen."

Ross pulled on the gloves. They were tight. He removed the letter and asked, "Does your wife know about this new demand?"

Windslow shook his head. "She's still sleeping upstairs in her bedroom." "Her bedroom." He hadn't said "our bedroom." Apparently using different staircases was not the only thing that the couple did separately.

This new note—the third from the kidnappers—looked much like the first ransom demand. It was handwritten in block letters and contained specific instructions.

"GO TO YOUR SAFETY DEPOSIT BOX AND REMOVE THE SIX MILLION YOU HAVE STASHED THERE."

While Ross was reading, the senator said, "My stepson must have told them about the six million. I should've known that little bastard couldn't keep his mouth shut. Probably told them about it when they were jerking out his front teeth."

Six million dollars in a safety deposit box. Ross marveled at the way the senator had just let that drop, as if having that kind of money just sitting around in cash was the most natural thing in the world. Ally had been right about Windslow. He was indeed on the take. No wonder the Great Man had wanted to see him alone. Seeing as things were just starting to get interesting, Ross decided to play along.

"Why'd your stepson know about it?"

"The box is rented under his name."

The note instructed the senator to remove the six million from the bank before closing time today. It was to be divided into four equal piles of $1.5 million, and each pile was to be put into a gym bag. At exactly 6 P.M., the kidnappers would call Brooke Toppers on her cell phone with instructions on where to deliver the bags. She would need a car because the bags would be dropped at different locations around Washington, D.C. If the FBI attempted to monitor the deliveries or to intervene, the kidnappers would kill Matthew Dull.

Jabbing his bony finger at the ransom demand, Windslow said, "Make sure you read that last line carefully!"

"HAVE JACK RUSSELL DRIVE BROOKE TOPPERS TO THE BANK AND ON THE DELIVERIES TONIGHT."

"How in the hell do the kidnappers know about you?" Windslow asked in an accusatory voice, "and why do they want you driving my future daughter-in-law around with my six million in cash?"

Ross had to admit it was an interesting question. Clearly there was a leak, an informant, tipping off the kidnappers. But Lynch didn't like Windslow's tone. The senator might have gotten away with bullying his way over others, but not Ross Lynch.

"I've got a few questions of my own," Ross replied, ignoring Windslow's question. "Why don't you want the FBI to know about this note?"

The senator replied, "Because that six million is what we call 'walking around money' in politics. Texas is a big state. Lots of people have their hands out come election time. I don't think Agent Dawson or the Justice Department would understand."

"Neither would the IRS," Ross said. "It's bribe money."

"C'mon, son. Jedidiah told me you had street smarts. How do you think campaigns are run? I use that cash to grease a few palms. It's no big deal. It's expected."

"I'm not talking about greasing palms in Texas," Ross replied. "I'm talking about your palms getting greased."

A flash of anger washed over Windslow's face. No one talked to him like this. But he kept his temper in check. "Where that money came from is none of your goddamn business," he said. "You're not here to investigate me. Look, what choice do I have? The kidnappers are demanding six million or they're going to kill my stepson. I can't go to the FBI because the six million is off-the-books income. I need you to do this for me. I need you to do it without telling the FBI."

Having carefully returned the ransom note to its envelope, Ross removed the rubber gloves and said, "The kidnappers know where you live."

Windslow said, "Everyone knows where I live. It's no goddamn secret."

"The kidnappers know you've got six million in cash in a safety deposit box and you can't tell the FBI about it."

"Yeah, and they also know about you, Mr. Jack Russell, or whatever your real name is."

"They seem to know an awful lot."

"We got a leaky faucet," Windslow said.

"Any idea who?"

"No. I've been going over names since the note arrived." "How about Brooke Toppers?"

"Brooke?" Windslow repeated, breaking into a toothy grin. "That girl's bra size is twice her IQ. She's not smart enough to be involved in this. Where would she find four men to kidnap Matthew? Kidnappers don't advertise on craigslist. Besides, she's a trust fund baby. She's got no need for my money."

"My experience has been that the richer you are, the more you want. The kidnappers have asked her to deliver the ransom twice now. Why her?"

"She loves Matthew and she isn't going to take my money and disappear. I told you, she's loaded. Her parents died in an accident and left her millions. Besides, she's not exactly a threat to them since she's so puny. "

"Could she and your stepson have dreamed up this entire scheme?" Ross asked. He watched Windslow's face for a reaction. Surprise. Anger. Anything. But there was nothing, and that suggested the senator had already considered the idea.

"Matthew is too vain to let someone pull out his four front teeth," Windslow said. "Also, the safety deposit box is in his name, and he knows I can't complain in public if that cash vanishes. He could have gone in and taken it without faking his own kidnapping."

"What about your congressional staff? A disgruntled employee, maybe?"

"Haven't fired anyone in years, and only a couple of them know Matthew is missing."

"That leaves only two other people who could've tipped off the kidnappers about my arrival last night," Ross said. "You and your wife."

Windslow smirked. "Why would I kidnap my stepson and demand six million in cash—money that's already mine." "That narrows it down to your wife."

Windslow set down the coffee mug that he'd been cradling. "I'm going to tell you a story. A year ago, I had a heart attack and it almost killed me. Gloria never left my side. She nursed me back to health. By that time, we'd been married for nearly twenty years. Marrying a younger woman caused tongues to wag. Everyone thought Gloria was a gold digger waiting for me to die. But that woman really loves me. She proved it when I got sick. After I recovered from my heart attack, I tore up our prenuptial agreement. If I kick off today, Gloria gets everything and that's more than the six million walking around money that these bastards want. Besides, Gloria wouldn't put her son through this. She spoils that kid rotten."

"Where's the leak then?" Ross asked.

"Why are you assuming it came from my turf? Those instructions—telling us to divide the money into four piles so they can be delivered at four different sites—that sounds like something the CIA would dream up."

"Jedidiah Starr?"

"Son, I've been dealing with the agency for a long, long time, and you never can be certain what Starr and his buddies are doing. For all I know, Starr could be playing some sort of game here."

"I owe my life to that man."

"That don't mean he wouldn't use you—to get to me."

"For what reason? Why would he risk kidnapping the stepson of a U.S. senator on U.S. soil?"

Windslow shrugged. "All I'm saying is he's the one who brought you here, and he has contacts with plenty of ex-military who would know how to pull off a kidnapping. Plus, the kidnappers want you riding around with my money."

"Motive? Starr could steal millions at his job. He doesn't need to rip off you. Maybe he's got other reasons."

"Since you've opened that door," Ross said, "what's the covert mission that you and Starr are fighting about?"

A flash of surprise appeared in Windslow's eyes.

"I'm not opening any doors. Our disagreement has nothing to do with this, nothing. Don't try to go there."

"How about Ivan Petrov?" Ross asked. "Could he have something to do with your stepson's kidnapping?"

The Russian was one of the names that Ross had come across during his late night probe on the intelligence network. Petrov was an oligarch who the CIA was monitoring. He'd recently had several dealings with Windslow, according to CIA INTEL bulletins.

The mention of Petrov's name sparked an instant reaction that Ross hadn't expected.

Windslow sprung from his seat toward the chair where Ross was sitting. Towering over him, the senator said, "You're sticking your nose where it doesn't belong now. Who the hell do you think you are? How dare you come into my house and accuse me of taking bribes! How dare you accuse my wife of being in cahoots with the kidnappers! How dare you ask about private intelligence matters between Starr and me! Why did you mention Ivan Petrov just now? Did Jedidiah put you up to that? Is that why he brought you in—to investigate Petrov and me?"

Windslow hesitated for a second, clearly thinking about his next step. Still fuming, he said, "Listen, son, all I need to know from you right now is whether you're in this thing tonight or you're out. I can arrange for Toppers to get the six million from the bank. But I'm going to need time to find someone else to drive her around if you back out. Are you in this thing or not?"

"What about Agent Dawson and the Bureau?" Ross asked.

"I've already answered that. No FBI. Period."

"Even if Agent Dawson and the Bureau are your best shot at saving Matthew Dull's life?"

Windslow's face was now turning red with both frustration and anger. "You're supposed to be my best shot. But, so far, all you've done is flap your jaws and question my integrity. I've destroyed men much more powerful than you are. I crushed them like bugs under my boot heel. If you want out of this, then get the hell out of my house and go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under. But you'll keep your damn mouth shut about the six million—if you know what's good for you. Either way, I need to know if you are in or out."

Ross rose from his seat and stood directly in front of Windslow's age-lined face. "Don't threaten me, Senator," he said calmly. "The last guy who did didn't survive his 'heart attack.'"

For a moment, neither flinched, and then Windslow broke into an odd smile. "Fair enough," he said. "In Texas, we admire a man who stands his mud. But while the two of us are having this little pissing contest, time is wasting."

Common sense told Ross to walk away. The kidnappers had an inside source. The fact that they wanted him to drive tonight was suspicious. Was he being set up? Ever since Tangiers, Ross had trusted Starr completely. He still did. But was it possible that Senator Windslow was right about the CIA's involvement? People were expendable. Ross had learned that early on. And that applied to him, too. For the good of the country, he could be sacrificed.

From the beginning, Ross had been curious about why Jedidiah had brought him back to help solve a kidnapping. There had to be more involved here. Jedidiah had admitted that to his face. But what was being hidden in the shadows? What was the game that he was being drawn deeper into?

During his overnight Internet investigation, Ross had learned about Ivan Petrov. The Russian was another suspect that he'd added to the long list of suspects identified by Agent Dawson. She had told him that the senator and Jedidiah were involved in a nasty dispute about a covert operation. Windslow had reacted violently when questioned about that operation and about Petrov. Ally had mentioned a six-million-dollar bribe from a foreigner. The kidnappers were demanding a six-million-dollar payoff. Were they the same six million, and if so, was that significant or a coincidence?

Only one thing was perfectly clear—the longer Ross stayed, the more he discovered, the more difficult it would be to walk away. Senator Windslow had just offered him an out. To the world, Ross Lynch was still dead. He could catch a flight back to Montana that afternoon and disappear. He could be fly-fishing at sunrise tomorrow. The big trout was still there waiting for him. It really could be that simple. That easy. All he had to do was walk away now, which is what anyone with any shred of common sense would do.

"I'll drive tonight," Ross said.

"What about Agent Dawson?" Windslow asked. "Are you going to tell her about what's happening—about the money and the four bags?"

"No," Ross said. "I'll deliver the money tonight with Brooke Toppers on my own. Without backup—either from the FBI or Starr."

**Hey guys soo what did you think don't forget to review pleases cuz it's really nice to do.**


	6. Chapter 6

Ross had gone about a mile from Windslow's Great Falls estate, when the cell phone that Jedidiah Starr had given him began to ring.

"Out on an early morning drive," Starr said when Ross answered. "How's our friend this morning?"

Starr was tracking him. Was the FBI, too?

"He's a bit rattled," Ross said.

"Why don't you drop into my office? The exit is clearly marked."

Starr was referring to a green exit sign on the George Washington Parkway that read: "George Bush Center for Intelligence CIA, Next Left."

So much for secrecy.

Lynch took the exit and soon reached a stoplight where Georgetown Pike intersected with the entrance to the CIA's vast compound in Langley. Someone had placed freshly cut flowers next to two wooden crosses in the median. The sight of them brought back a memory.

It had been cold in January 1993 when an Islamic fundamentalist from Pakistan stopped at this intersection and casually stepped from his Isuzu pickup. He'd lifted an AK-47 rifle to his shoulder and started shooting motorists and passengers in the vehicles that had stopped behind him at the stoplight, waiting to turn into the CIA compound. They were employees on their way to work. The shooter had spared the women because he'd considered murdering them a cowardly act. In all, the Pakistani killed two CIA employees and wounded three others before he returned to his truck and drove away. It had taken a special CIA team five years to track down the gunman. They'd caught him while he was asleep in a three-dollar-a-night Pakistan hotel. The terrorist had been brought back to the U.S., put on trial, and executed in Virginia's electric chair. The flowers were a reminder of the nation's many enemies out there.

When the red light changed, Ross turned into the CIA entrance and out of habit stayed in the left lane as he approached a large guardhouse. Suddenly, he caught his mistake and swerved into the right lane. The entrance on the left side was for employees. As directed by signs, Ross stopped at a speaker and announced that his name was Jack Russell and he was coming to see the director of the NCS.

"What's your Social Security number?" a male voice asked.

"You'll have to ask the director for it," he replied.

For several minutes, Ross sat in his car at the now silent speaker, imagining what was happening in the guardhouse, which was about a hundred yards directly in front of him. It was unusual for someone to withhold their Social Security number.

Finally, the male voice said, "Mr. Russell, drive forward slowly."

Two armed security officers stepped from the guardhouse, both cradling semiautomatic weapons. When he reached them, one of the officers compared his face to a picture. It was an old shot from Ross' CIA files, only the name on it now was "JACK RUSSELL." Satisfied, the officer let him pass.

Ross drove the Taurus through a maze of waist-high concrete pillars designed to prevent motorists from speeding through the main gate. He parked in the visitor's lot outside the 1960s-era Old Headquarters Building at the top of a gentle hill. Inside, Ross walked across the CIA emblem embedded in the gray marble lobby floor. To his left was a white stone wall inscribed with a quote from the Holy Bible: John, Chapter 8, Verse 32: "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."

To his right were five rows of stars on a wall, each representing a CIA officer who had been killed in the line of duty.

An attractive middle-aged woman dressed in a dark gray business suit was waiting to escort Ross through Security. Lynch found Jedidiah perched behind his GSA-issued executive desk, which had been cleared of all papers, a routine practice whenever someone not officially employed by the Agency entered a room.

"Why'd the senator call you this morning? Was he having nightmares?" Starr asked gleefully.

Déjà vu. How many times had Ross sat across from Starr in this office? How many times had they discussed black ops? But that had been then. This was now.

Ignoring Starr's question, Ross replied, "When were you going to tell me about Ivan Petrov?" Starr leaned forward and raised his interlocked fingers, placing them directly under his chin with his elbows now resting on his desk. He seemed to be in deep thought. "I wondered when you would identify Petrov. What have you learned?"

It was as if Ross were still in training, being dropped off with only the clothes on his back in a frozen wilderness as part of a survival exercise.

"Ivan Petrov," Ross said, "was once best friends with Russian President Oleg Barkovsky. It was Barkovsky who helped Petrov become a multi-billionaire by letting him privatize the nation's largest bank after the collapse of the Soviet Union. He became one of Russia's first oligarchs. Private jets, a yacht in the Mediterranean—Petrov bought all the toys. He even owns an English castle outside London formerly owned by the Duke of Madison. And then two years ago, Petrov started biting the hand that was feeding him. How am I doing so far?"

Starr nodded approvingly. "Go on," he said.

"Petrov began publicly criticizing Barkovsky. He developed political ambitions of his own. That's when President Barkovsky brought down the hammer. He sent the Federal Security Service into Petrov's bank and seized all its records. He accused Petrov of embezzlement and crimes against the state. He was about to have him arrested when Petrov somehow managed to slip out of Moscow."

Ross paused and said, "His escape looked like something you might have had a hand in."

Starr smiled slightly and said, "More likely MI-6. The Brits. They've done that sort of thing before, remember? But you're the one telling this story."

"Petrov surfaced in London, where he surrounded himself with bodyguards and began a personal crusade to get Barkovsky ousted from the Kremlin. The Russian president didn't take the attacks well. There was a sensational murder. The poisoning of a top Petrov aide. Radionuclide polonium-210, I believe. Nasty stuff. Next came a car bomb. Petrov decided to come here. Probably felt safer. That's when he really began showing up on your radar. Correct?"

Starr leaned back in his chair, which squeaked loudly. He rested his hands in his lap. And waited, without comment, for Lynch to continue.

"Petrov makes a big splash in Washington. He buys a mansion on Embassy Row. He begins throwing elaborate parties for the city's political elite. And he continues his verbal attacks on Barkovsky. He continues plotting ways to undermine him. He starts making friends on Capitol Hill."

"Money and power," Starr said. "They're magnets in this town."

"Petrov has the money. Billions," Ross said. "Windslow has the power. A perfect marriage."

Leaning forward, Starr began rapping his right index finger on top of his desk as if he were playing a drum. He was becoming impatient. "That all?" he asked.

"Is there more?" Ross replied coyly.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Cat and mouse. You go first.

Ross shook his head, indicating that he was done.

"You've uncovered the basics," Starr said, taking over the story. "Everyone began getting nervous when Petrov and Windslow became so chummy. Officially, the White House has good relations with Russian President Barkovsky, so the President didn't like having the chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee becoming bosom buddies with an oligarch whose mission in life is to destroy a sitting Russian leader."

"I'm sure Petrov's billions made the White House nervous—given Windslow's light fingers."

Starr gave Ross an approving smile. "So you do know more. Shall I assume you also know about Agent Dawson's investigation and her recent claim that Windslow was paid a six-million-dollar bribe."

"Dawson said the six million came from London via the Cayman Islands. Petrov was granted political asylum by the Brits after he was forced to flee Moscow," Ross said. "It's an easy connection to make."

"But it's a circumstantial connection at best. There's no proof that Petrov paid the bribe or that Windslow got it."

For a second, Ross considered telling Starr about the six million in cash that Windslow had hidden in a bank safety deposit box. But he decided against it. He wanted to see what else Jones was willing to tell him.

"What was Petrov hoping to buy with his six-million-dollar bribe?" Ross asked.

"We don't know. At least, not for certain."

"Could it be the covert operation that you two are fighting about?"

"So you know about that, too," Starr said. "You are a resourceful student."

"That's why you love me, isn't it? Now, what is it—the covert operation that you are fighting about?"

"It's a 'need to know' operation, and you don't need to know."

"Is it linked to the kidnapping?"

Starr gave Ross a blank look. "I said you didn't need to know."

"Do you think Petrov is responsible for the kidnapping?"

"You tell me," Starr said. It was a difficult game to play with someone as experienced as Jedidiah Starr. He knew secrets about secrets about secrets. And he kept them carefully concealed until he needed to use them. Obviously, he was keeping the covert operation and his opinion of Ivan Petrov to himself. At least for now.

"Is Petrov even in the country?" Ross asked.

"He's in London or on his yacht. It hardly matters. A billionaire can hire anyone to do his dirty work."

"Why is a car from the Russian embassy tailing Agent Dawson?"

"Now, that's a good question—that you should ask her."

"I will." Changing subjects, Ross said, "Senator Windslow suggested this morning that you brought me here as a ruse. He said you don't really care about solving the kidnapping. He suggested that you wanted me to investigate his relationship with Petrov. He thinks you might even have engineered this whole thing—the kidnapping—as part of some elaborate agency ploy."

A look of disgust came over Starr's face. "Please, do you think I would put this agency at risk by abducting a senator's stepson in broad daylight in Georgetown and then jerking his teeth out? My hands are clean. But he's right about me wanting you to find out more about his relationship with Petrov. The White House also wants to know more."

Ross asked, "Is that why Agent Dawson's bribery case against Senator Windslow has been put on ice? The White House doesn't want the public to know that Petrov bribed Windslow?"

"Let's just say everyone believes it is prudent to wait right now until we know for certain that Petrov bribed Windslow and, if he did, what Petrov expected to get for his money. The White House wants to know the answers to that before it's made public. There could be international consequences."

"And the covert mission—the one that you don't want to discuss—could that be something that Windslow got you and the agency to do for Petrov? Are your hands really clean?"

Starr raised his palms in front of him. It was a gesture that was intended to show that his palms were washed and also to stop this line of questioning. "Let's focus on the kidnapping," he said.

"'And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free,'" Ross taunted.

"Sometimes too much truth is not a good thing when it comes to international politics," Jones replied. "Find out who's behind the kidnapping. And do it without causing the White House or this agency embarrassment."

"One last question," Ross asked. "Where'd you hide the bug? In the rental car or are you using the cell phone?" "You're the private detective," Starr said. "You figure it out."


	7. Chapter 7

Ross could hear the muffled sounds of a television playing inside his hotel suite as he approached its locked door. Someone was inside. He knew it was her as soon as he smelled her perfume. Swiping his room key through the electronic lock, he walked in, expecting to see Laura Marano.

But she was not there. It was Agent Dawson.

A coincidence that both women wore the same fragrance? Or was it him? How many times had he and Laura met in hotel rooms? How many sweaty mornings, afternoons, and nights had they made love? Was he having some Pavlov's dog reaction? Was Agent Dawson replacing Laura in his thoughts?

"You were supposed to meet me at eight o'clock," Ally said, clearly irritated. "I was scheduled to take you to our FBI command post."

She was sitting on the suite's sofa watching CNN on a flatscreen while sipping a Diet Coke from the recently restocked mini-bar.

"A bit early to be drinking Diet Coke, isn't it?" he asked, walking to the minibar. He took out an imported beer.

"A bit early to be drinking a beer, isn't it?" she shot back.

He sat in a chair near the sofa. "I'm glad I finally got you in-suite," he said, glancing toward the bed.

"Don't get your hopes up," she replied.

"I was hoping you'd get them up for me," he answered.

Ignoring the innuendo, she said, "Where have you been? I've been waiting."

"Sightseeing."

"Are you going to tell me about your meeting this morning with Senator Windslow? How about your meeting with Jedidiah Starr? We're on the same team, right?"

So the FBI was tracking his movements, too.

Ross took a swig and then said, "Agent Dawson, when were you going to tell me about Ivan Petrov?"

She looked surprised. "Did Windslow tell you about Petrov or did Starr?"

"Neither. This might surprise you, but I am a private detective."

"Does Starr think Petrov is behind the kidnapping?"

"You'll have to ask him," Ross replied. "Do you think Petrov had the stepson kidnapped?"

"Yes, I do. I think that's why the kidnappers didn't try to pick up the one-million-dollar ransom in Union Station. Petrov's a billionaire and he doesn't need the money. He kidnapped Matthew Dull because he's pressuring the senator to do something for him—something that I think your buddy Jedidiah Starr knows about. I think it's all tied to some covert operation they're fighting about. But every time I ask about it, I'm told it's 'above my pay grade.' The same old shitty excuse that I'm always told."

"I'm surprised," Ross said.

"Why? You think I'm wrong?"

"No, I think you're probably right. Petrov is the most likely suspect. And I also think something strange is going on between Windslow and Starr. But the reason why I'm surprised is because you just said the word 'shitty.'"

She gave him a puzzled look.

"That's such rude language," he continued, "coming from someone who got her undergraduate degree at Marymount University. Isn't that suburban Washington, D.C., school a Catholic enclave, founded by the Religious of the Sacred Heart of Mary? I doubt the good nuns allowed you to swear on campus."

"Is this your clever way of telling me that you ran a background check on me last night?"

"Editor of the Georgetown Law Review, top in your graduating class at the FBI Academy in Quantico. The Bureau sent you to Seattle first, but you were too good to stay long in the field. The brass wanted you at headquarters. The best and brightest. A go-to agent in high-profile cases. Smart. Clever. Someone who understood this city. A workaholic. No time for hobbies. No time for fun. No time for marriage or even a boyfriend. Your mother doesn't like that. She wants grandkids."

"There's nothing in my personnel record about my mother wanting grandkids," she said.

"Doesn't need to be. Big beautiful brown hair with ombre highlights. Chocolate brown eyes. You've got catholic school girl written all over your face. I've never met an Irish mother, especially a good Catholic, who didn't want her only daughter married and pregnant. She must be so disappointed."

"It's none of your business."

"You asked me about my past."

"And you didn't tell me a damn thing."

"Ah, more profanity. Did the nuns slap your knuckles? How did they feel about premarital intercourse?"

She started to respond but caught herself. "Let's cut the bull, er, crap," she said.

He had gotten to her. Unnerved her. Irritated her. He was enjoying this.

She asked, "Did the kidnappers contact Windslow this morning? Is that why he got you up so early and you went to his house?"

She had good instincts. She suspected something was up.

Ross took another long swig and noticed that he'd almost emptied the bottle. "The senator specifically asked me to keep our meeting this morning confidential," he replied. "If you haven't noticed, he's lost faith in the FBI."

Ally hit the television remote hard with her right thumb, flipping off the CNN newscast. "What did Starr tell you at the CIA?"

"Why aren't you married, Agent Dawson?"

"Are you?" she shot back. "Do you have an ex living in Hawaii, a girlfriend in Pocatello? Oh, maybe you like boys?"

She was getting warmed up now. He could see fire in her brown eyes and he liked it.

Continuing, Ally said, "Are you going to tell me about your meetings with Windslow and Starr? Or are we going to keep trading insults?"

"Insults? I thought we were engaging in foreplay," he replied. "Tell me something juicy about yourself—"something dirty."

He could tell that she wasn't enjoying this. He was.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" she asked. "You roll into Washington like some big, bad hero brought in to save the day and impress everyone while giving me and the Bureau the finger."

"Yes. But with you I mean it in the nicest way."

Rising from her seat, she said: "You need a reality check. No one is above the law. Not Senator Windslow, not Jedidiah Starr, and certainly not you. If you're not going to cooperate, then I'm not going to watch your back. You should think about that. And think about this, too. If I discover that you intentionally withheld evidence or did something illegal for the senator—even something just a teensy—weensy against the law-I'm going to come down on you with the full weight of the Justice Department. You're not a federal employee. You're a civilian, just like any other asshole on the streets."

With a look of fake innocence, Ross replied, "How did they define 'teensy-weensy illegal' at Georgetown Law? I'm not familiar with it as a legal term."

Her face flushed red. She started walking toward the suite's door.

"Agent Dawson," he called after her.

She paused, glancing over her shoulder.

"This is the second time that I've been threatened today and it's not even noon," he said.

"Maybe instead of being an ass," she replied, "you should start cooperating with the people who can help you. You're a fool if you try to handle this on your own." She reached for the doorknob and turned it. "I'll tell them at the command post that you are being less than forthcoming."

"Before you go," he said, "I have a question. Why was a car from the Russian embassy tailing you last night after you left the hotel?"

She turned to face him but kept her hand on the doorknob. "It's interesting that you know when someone is being tailed, but you don't know when you're being played. Did it ever dawn on you that the reason Starr brought you into this case is to be a fall guy?"

"How would I end up being a fall guy, Agent Dawson?"

"Quid pro quo," she replied.

"Oh, I'll show you mine if you show me yours. No, thanks. Unless you actually do want to see mine."

As before, she ignored his sexual flirtation. "There'll be a scapegoat if Matthew Dull ends up dead," she said. "This is Washington. Someone will have to take the blame."

"You did learn something at Georgetown Law," he said. "One of the first lessons was that it's always the person who's in the weakest position who gets hung out to dry. That's you."

Ross put his now empty beer bottle down and looked up at her from his chair. There was a magnetism about her. A passion. His father had warned him to stay away from brown-haired women. "They're nuts!" he'd said. Ross thought about what she was saying. Was he really in the weakest position? It was not an unusual position for him to fall into. All of his training had been aimed at teaching him how to strengthen his position, how to overcome any type of obstacle. If he were in a weak position, he knew that he could find a way out. Could she? It was clear to him that Agent Dawson was playing a game of checkers, when everyone else around her was playing chess. Did she realize it?

"Since you graduated magna cum laude," Ross replied, "You know that what you just said is—to use your own term—bull crap." He was mimicking her. He was continuing to push her buttons.

Ross said, "Yes, the weakest player is always the fall guy. But in this investigation, I am not him. It is not Senator Windslow and it certainly is not Jedidiah Starr. It's you, Agent Dawson."

Ally Dawson slammed the suite's door as she exited.

He gave her ten minutes to vacate the hotel. After that, he went to the lobby and spoke to the concierge.

"I'd like to rent a van. Can I get it before lunch?" Ross asked.

"Of course. How long will you need it?"

"I'll return it tomorrow morning. I'd prefer something with no windows, or heavily tinted ones."

"I'll arrange it immediately."

When he returned to his suite, he could still smell the remnants of her perfume."

**Hey guys sorry it took forever since my last update but hope you liked it also if there are still some "Beauty and the Playboy" fans out there I know it's been a year since I updated that story but I finally have the last two chapters done and they will be up either sometime today or tomorrow morning so watch for that update as well have a Rossome day guys don't forget to review please.**


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